


In Practice

by greywash



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...sort of, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Muff Diving Brigade, F/M, Insane boyfriends forever, Irene thinks these assholes are fucking hilarious, John is a Horndog, M/M, Sherlock's experiments are sometimes not scientifically rigorous, Threesome, except not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's time is limited, so he tends to focus on acquiring the knowledge he finds most necessary in the quickest and most convenient way possible—which, yes, frequently means that he tends towards the theoretical over the practical, especially when the theory is widely explored, frequently elaborated, and easily accessible.</p>
<p>"So you mean," John says, a little thickly, "you've watched a lot of porn," and Irene drops down onto her stomach on the floor with her hair falling around her face and laughs and laughs and laughs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="small">
    <em>Unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked; briefly audienced by Roane to ensure that it was actually written in English but that's it. To be honest, this is a writing exercise gone <strong>massively out of control</strong>. Read at your own risk and OMG, no, really, I'm so sorry. /o\</em>
  </span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Practice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> I'm pretty drunk, guys, but I do think it is worth mentioning here (as well as on Tumblr!) that from my perspective, there are relationships that can incorporate more than two people, and then there are relationships that can't, and for any number of reasons, I tend, overwhelmingly, to categorize John and Sherlock as a relationship that _can't_. So pretty much any time I write a John/Sherlock/anyone three-way, please understand that it is basically always going to be, on a fundamental level, a John/Sherlock story.
> 
> Uhhhhhhh so Songlin asked for John/Sherlock/Irene, and I... wrote this. OMG I'M SORRY.

Sherlock does understand the difference between theory and experimental data—quite well, actually. He gets rather impatient with certain other individuals who assume that because he happens to know Process X in theory and Process Y in practice, he assumes that practical knowledge of Process X is irrelevant, or would in no way expand his understanding. In point of fact, the driving motivation is almost always simply that Sherlock's time is limited, so he tends to focus on acquiring the knowledge he finds most necessary in the quickest and most convenient way possible—which, yes, frequently means that he tends towards the theoretical over the practical, especially when the theory is widely explored, frequently elaborated, and easily accessible.

"So you mean," John says, a little thickly, "you've watched a lot of porn," and Irene drops down onto her stomach on the floor with her hair falling around her face and laughs and laughs and laughs, while Sherlock curses the both of them and the whiskey and his damnable _contentment_ for getting him into this conversation in the first place.

"Oh, yes, terribly amusing, I know," Sherlock says, and sighs. "I don't see why you find this so entertaining. Would a man on a diet be half so humorous?"

"Excuse me," John says, leaning forward, "you mock Mycroft _all the time_ , you—"

Sherlock waves a hand, frustrated. "Yes, but that's different."

"You really are a bastard, aren't you," Irene says, sounding pleased.

Sherlock is bored with sniping at her, so he doesn't reply. Instead, he rubs his thumb over the condensation on his glass; the leftover ice has mostly melted into amber-tinted water, but it still smells autumnal and warm. They are drinking to victory; it's possible that they could've done so two weeks ago, on the night that John grabbed Sherlock by the lapel and took a full seventy-four seconds to decide not to punch him, but they'd had rather a lot to do at the time, the three of them. Sherlock decides to get another whiskey. When he stands, John's eyes track him, and then John holds his empty glass up, so Sherlock takes his, too. John smiles at him, and Sherlock turns and goes into the kitchen.

"It's just—it's mechanics, from my perspective," Sherlock explains from the sink, dumping their glasses out before adding new ice. "I find it useful to be familiar, to an extent, with sexual behavior, because it occasionally becomes relevant to my work, but it's not something where I'd ever expect to have occasion to use my knowledge in any more hands-on arena, that's all." He doesn't measure the whiskey, this time; he can eyeball it well enough. When he looks up, John is still watching him from the sofa. It is, inexplicably, embarrassing.

Irene, for her part, has gone back to watching the both of them: her eyes flicking back and forth, back and forth, expression considering, but she looks up at Sherlock alone as he comes back in. "Not ever?" she asks, watching his face, intent. "You don't intend to ever have sex?"

Sherlock clears his throat. "Why should I?" He hands John his drink without looking away from Irene's face, then realizes, too late, that he's got the glasses mixed up.

"Even people on a diet occasionally have a slice of cake," Irene says.

John is already taking a long drink. Sherlock—disregards; it's unlikely to matter. The whiskey is probably not high enough proof to be an effective antiseptic—he marks it for future study—but he _lives_ with John; if one or the other of them is carrying a bug, the other will most likely get it soon enough. Sherlock clears his throat and says, "Sex is, in point of fact, completely optional," instead of watching John drink. "It's not like breathing, or eating, or sleeping, all of which I do unfortunately have to waste time doing every now and again. It doesn't _damage_ me, in any way, to avoid sex—or, well," he concedes, "sex with other people, and I certainly do avoid any number of inconvenient entanglements." He raises an eyebrow at John, who is lowering his glass.

"Hey, now," John says, sounding wounded, "the paternity test came back negative," and Sherlock freezes, for a split second, until he realizes that John is grinning up at him while Irene drops her head down into her arms, laughing so hard that her shoulders shake with it.

"But your _pride_ , John," Sherlock manages, nonsensical and off-balance, and John's smile softens. Three years ago John wouldn't have caught him, but of course, three years ago, Sherlock wouldn't have been away long enough to give him the opportunity.

John says, "Are you going to just stand all evening, or—" but Sherlock is already folding himself back down. Since John is sprawled out across the sofa and Irene is curled up with the spare blanket from Sherlock's bed—well, the vast majority of the spare blankets in the flat, as a matter of fact—on the floor, Sherlock perches on the coffee table, which has spent the bulk of the evening pulled askew, because the chairs would, by their position, tend to exclude Irene. Sherlock sips his whiskey.

Sherlock hasn't been keeping track of who is drinking what when, but there are too many variables for it to be meaningful, anyway: Irene's lower body mass but heavier pour; John's decades of drinking with men a half a foot taller and two stone heavier than him; Sherlock's general disinclination towards alcohol except as an occasionally useful social lubricant and resultant tendency to start to get a little fuzzy early in his second pint of lager, under whatever circumstances actually require pint(s) of lager. Sherlock suspects that, in point of fact, they're more or less keeping pace with each other. He isn't drunk, but he feels a little bit smudgy at the edges, warm and foolish; John is sprawled out instead of sitting up properly, his spine gone liquid and relaxed; and Irene's cheeks are flushed pink, and her hair is frizzing wildly (Sherlock cropped it to her chin and then dyed almost blue-black under her careful direction, two weeks and six days ago, in Madrid, their last stop before home; and it curls more, like this). She has propped herself back up on her elbows, and she is looking up at Sherlock with an expression too warm to be trusted.

Irene says, "It's not—it doesn't have to be... ah, tangled, you know."

Sherlock tilts his shoulder. "Doesn't have to be, possibly," he concedes. "But statistically speaking, it probably would be."

"There are compensations," John says, quiet, and Sherlock looks over at him, surprised.

The tone of John's voice is at odds with his overall behavior. John is not quiet with love. He appears to have an elaborate and carefully time-honed script to dictate his conduct with women: he works hard if not intelligently at his relationships; and Sherlock has seen him achieve sex (apparently to the enjoyment of all participants) and pursue commitment (with substantially less satisfactory results), but John seems to believe in sex (inconvenient) and hard work (boring) and not much else, and contextually speaking, it doesn't sound very much like he's talking about either.

"Such as?" Sherlock asks.

"Closeness," John says instantly. "Warmth."

Sherlock watches him, but John doesn't continue. After a moment, John looks down into his glass, silent.

"So sweet," Irene says. Sherlock would suspect her of irony, but it doesn't sound like a joke, and when Sherlock glances at her, she is looking at John.

"Yeah, well, that's me," John says, flat, and then looks away, clearing his throat. "But—really, you know," he says, forcing his voice light, "just—it can be fun, I think that's—I know that you get bored easily and all, but people are interesting. Their bodies are, um. Different, it's—it's always different, and that makes it." He shrugs, and finishes, "Fun," and then laughs, a little ashamedly. Sherlock doesn't know why.

"Other people," Sherlock says, very carefully, "are very rarely interesting to me."

Irene snorts. Sherlock glances over to her as she pushes up onto her knees.

"Well," she says, " _other people_ are quite frequently interesting to me, and I like sex. It _is_ fun." She's—she's looking at _John_ , why is she looking at John? "And sometimes," she says, "it's nice to have someone else look after you for a while. Friendly-like."

John doesn't look away from Sherlock when Irene pulls herself up onto her knees on the couch, facing the back, or even when she leans in close to—Sherlock tenses. Irene's face is very close to John's face. She turns, just barely, at the very last instant, and presses her left cheek to John's left cheek. She's facing away, so Sherlock can't see her mouth, and if she is whispering it is too quiet for Sherlock to hear, but John's face flushes bright and hot, and he looks down for a split second, then back up at Sherlock. John's eyes are wide.

Sherlock forces his hand to relax on his glass. He keeps his expression still.

John licks his lips, and then starts to turn his head, very slowly. For a moment Sherlock thinks John won't look away from Sherlock's face, which would be uncomfortable—hard on the neck, probably, among other things—but John does; just at the last instant, he looks at Irene's face as Irene turns towards him. She is looking up at John from under lowered lashes. It's different, with her makeup scrubbed off and her whiskey-flushed cheeks and her frizzy hair, but she's still without question playing a part; Sherlock wonders if John can tell.

John closes his eyes, when he kisses Irene. He puts his fingertips on her jaw and tilts her chin up even though sitting on the sofa they're more of a height than not, but it still makes Irene shiver, so either she thinks that she should shiver, or there is something about the gesture itself—Sherlock can see Irene's tongue. It is pink and shiny. She licks at the corner of John's mouth, and John catches his breath, and buries his hand in her dark curls.

Sherlock sips his drink. He knows that he is supposed to be watching, but he doesn't fully understand the purpose. It's not as though it's anything he hasn't seen before. He doesn't know what he's watching for; it makes him uncomfortable. John is still flushed, though perhaps not quite so intensely, and Irene is still kneeling next to him but her body is arched towards his, Sherlock's second-best dressing gown slipping to reveal the shoulder of her grey t-shirt, and the hems of her pajama pants are wound around her calves. The whole situation is uncomfortable: uncomfortable-looking, winding angular tension into Sherlock's back muscles, except that then Irene moves again, and the dressing gown slips open wide, and Sherlock can see her nipple, hard through her t-shirt, a hint of shadow all around. Sherlock looks up at the ceiling, and then, reluctantly, back. John's hand is sliding over Irene's throat. Sherlock glances down at John's chest, at the twisted placket of his shirt, at his lap, and then up again. John's arousal is not a surprise. Sherlock can always smell him.

Irene slides her hand up into John's hair, which is due for a trim and therefore, apparently, long enough to grab. She tugs John's head back, and he swallows, looking up at her. Irene's expression is fond. "You know," she says. "You do come rather highly recommended. I'm beginning to see why."

John gets pinker, and then clears his throat, and Irene laughs—surprisingly enough, not meanly—and then turns towards Sherlock—why? why is she, why would she—and says, "Are you sure you don't want to have a go?"

Sherlock can hear John take a breath. Sherlock watches Irene and is careful not to look over. He isn't at all sure what he is supposed to say, so he remains silent.

"I mean, for my part," Irene says, "I wouldn't mind at all if you wanted to get some of that direct, hands-on sort of experience with me. Simply, you know, in the interests of your education." She grins at him. "And now that our mutual friends are being so admirably handled by the Met, I'll be leaving in a day or two, so the chances of inconvenient entanglements really are minimal."

John pulls away from her. He puts his hands in his lap.

Sherlock takes a gulp of his drink, then says, "Not on my own," quickly, before he can think better of it.

John blinks at him, so Sherlock looks at Irene.

"I won't, on my own," Sherlock clarifies. "I don't trust you."

Her eyes glint. Sherlock's heart is beating too quickly. He does not, yet, quite regret it.

Irene licks her lips, then says, "As well you shouldn't," voice cheerful. Sherlock can't tell if it's feigned. "Well, John?" she asks. "It's unconventional, I'll admit, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to..."

She pauses. Sherlock looks down at his glass and remains silent. He can hear John's breathing, which is a little bit too fast.

"...chaperone?" Irene says, finally, and John laughs, a little wildly.

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"I need a glass of water," John says, pushing up to his feet.

Irene slides off the dressing gown—well, yes, she is flushed—then twists around to sitting, tugging her ankles up onto the sofa as John goes into the kitchen. She looks, inexplicably, pleased with herself.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks, under his breath.

"I don't know how you've gone thirty-nine years," she muses, over the low noise of the tap. "I've made it all of seven and a half months and I'm perfectly desperate for a shag."

"You're _gay_ ," Sherlock reminds her, and she smirks.

"In my experience, the overwhelming majority of interesting people in the world are women," she says, "but boredom does rather lower my standards," and then smiles sunnily up over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock turns. John is standing behind him, taking long, heavy swallows from his glass. Sherlock looks at John's throat, then back up at his face.

When the glass is empty, John sets it on the floor, right in the middle of the path to the kitchen, then steps over to sit next to Sherlock on the coffee table. Sherlock stares at him, confused. John glances at him, then looks straight ahead.

"Right, then," John says, voice firm and oddly flat, then nods at Irene. "I'm here, I'll bring up the rear, all is well in Baker Street, and so on and et cetera. Do what you like."

Sherlock swallows, and looks at Irene, who is sitting cross-legged, half-smiling, with her thumbnail tapping against her teeth. He looks back at John. John's expression is stony.

"I don't suppose you want to, um." Sherlock swallows. "Share your expertise."

John turns to stare at him, expression blank.

"I mean." Sherlock waves at Irene. "When it comes to learning practical skills, it's usually best to have multiple perspectives on one's performance, and Irene's feedback will by nature restricted to her—her specific angle on the situation, and—"

"Do you actually listen to the crap that comes out of your mouth?" John asks, but his mouth is tugging up at the corners, his back not quite so stiff, so Sherlock exhales.

"I try not to, no," he admits, and John laughs, shoulders settling, and Sherlock can breathe again.

"Am I going to have to get started on my own?" Irene asks. "Don't hog my toys, John."

John's eyes darken. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says. "Go on, then." He jerks his head at Irene. "Customary to start with a kiss, unless you already know the lady _very_ well."

Sherlock looks back at Irene, who is leaning forward. "I do know the lady very well," Sherlock says, "but still," and Irene tsks as Sherlock considers, then scoots his end of the coffee table closer to her. It seems safer than joining her on the sofa.

"I ought to slap that mouth," she says, smiling at him, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow and says, "I dare you to try," and she hums and says, "Maybe later."

Sherlock considers that as good as an invitation. He leans in until his nose bumps her nose, and then stills.

"Well, John?" he asks, "What next?" and Irene laughs.

"You're _hopeless_ ," she tells him.

"You could always just, you know, fiddle about until you find something that feels right," John says, "like _every other human being on the planet_ ," with his voice curling warm and amused around the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Dull," Sherlock says, "if you're not going to offer any _helpful_ suggestions, you could—" and Irene kisses him.

Her mouth is warm and rather soft. It's less... well, _wet_ , than he'd supposed it would be.

"I'm sorry; I got bored," she murmurs, against his mouth, "you were talking," and beside him, John starts to laugh.

Sherlock can't quite keep himself still; he shivers, and Irene murmurs, "Oh, good," and she—well, whatever she is thinking, she is wrong, so Sherlock kisses her the way John kissed her before, moves his lips as John moved his lips and his tongue as John moved his tongue and Irene makes a noise, hot and low and dark, that catches in Sherlock's mouth.

"Put your hands," she murmurs, "on my hips," and Sherlock is still trying to decide if she means her literal hipbones or just her sides when she finishes crawling up and into his lap, her knees sliding beside his thighs on the coffee table, and settles her weight against him. It didn't happen quickly, exactly, but it still catches Sherlock by surprise, so he flails his hand out and catches John's wrist, just as Irene catches Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock can't focus. His hand is on John's wrist, and he can hear John breathing. He can feel John's heartbeat, and Irene's mouth is soft and warm on his and when she parts her lips he parts his lips and her tongue slips over his—quick, just a tease—and John breathes in. Sherlock needs to catch his breath and can't; he has an excellent visual imagination. He knows what John must see: the small space between them when Irene shifts her mouth, the roll of her pajama-clad hips, as she rocks her impossible heat against him. Sherlock is aroused; it should not be surprising. He has a woman in his lap. John's pulse is pounding against his fingertips and Irene's fingers are sliding against his scalp.

She pulls his head back by his hair, and Sherlock, given cooler air, gulps down breath after breath. His face feels hot all over; he is almost certainly visibly flushed. Irene grins at him, eyes bright, mouth pink, and says, "Still want pointers?"

She rocks her hips, and Sherlock half-chokes, and tightens his hand on John's wrist.

"Yes?" she asks, and then does it again, and Sherlock can't keep himself silent, and John's hand slides in his— _no_ —to—oh—to interlace their fingers. "You want him to tell you what to do?" Irene asks, voice low, and Sherlock swallows, hard, as she is saying, "Do you want him to—" and Sherlock manages, "Yes," half voice, half empty air.

His hand is tight in John's hand and he can hear John breathing and Irene's smile is wide and uncomplicated and her eyes and voice are soft when she watches Sherlock's face and murmurs, "Well, then, Captain Watson. Your show, I think."

Sherlock feels like all the breath has been knocked out of his body. He can't look at John. He can't. Instead he looks at Irene who is very beautiful and has a sharp sharp _sharp_ blue gaze that is impossibly gentle when it falls on his face, so unlike her—but of course, at times Irene is unlike herself: in that rented white-walled cottage near the ocean outside Vancouver where they paid for internet access and stole everything else and she wore narrow-rimmed over-the-counter reading glasses and turned out to snore and spent seven days half force-feeding him Chinese takeaway until his trousers more or less fit him again while they filled in the gaps in his map of Moriarty's failed and falling web; in the warehouse in Paris where she'd patched up the two gunshot wounds to his right thigh—one just a graze; the other substantially more serious—with brutal efficiency and slapped him in the face, twice, and made him recite poems he'd learned as a schoolboy and never successfully deleted, so as to keep him awake; in a disabled toilet of the airport in Seoul, where she'd hidden to take a call and he had spent ten baffled and strangely terrifying minutes listening to her sob through the door before he'd knocked enough for her to let him in. Outside Vancouver she had said, "You are, without question, the single biggest failure as an adult that I have ever actually met;" and in Paris he had said, weak and thready, "Duck," and then shot over her shoulder four times and a fifth for the man that he'd missed while she said, "Good, that'll keep you awake;" and then in the airport in Seoul, she had said, "My mum, it's my mum," and then made a low, animal sort of sound and he had thought about what John would do and then put his arms around her, tight, and she had ruined his shirt no matter how many crumpled wads of toilet paper he passed her to wipe her face, and then they had never spoken of it again. Irene is a thief and a liar and a con artist and a consummate actress and his friend, and her eyes are gentle and affectionate, and he thinks about her saying, _it's nice to have someone else look after you for a while_ , and swallows.

"You could take off her shirt, if you wanted to," John says, very softly.

His hand is in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock can't move.

"Take off her shirt, Sherlock," John says, more firmly, and then loosens his hand and lets go and Sherlock gasps, and John says, "Shh, it's all right, go on," and settles his newly freed left hand against the fabric at the small of Sherlock's back.

Irene smiles at him, and Sherlock thinks, _She knows me_ , and then, _How unfortunate_ , but when he slides his hands to her belly she rocks against him, pushing his weight back to settle against John's broad palm. Sherlock swallows and slips his fingertips up under the hem of Irene's t-shirt, and lifts, and lifts, and lifts, and she raises her arms with his arms as John slides closer, his hand slipping over to Sherlock's left side.

"You can touch them, if you want to," Irene tells him, which—Sherlock blinks—yes, that is what one does with breasts; he does know the theory.

He swallows and then whispers, "John," but it doesn't make any sound at all so he tries again, " _John_ ," and then John scoots close up to Sherlock's side. His left hand is still on Sherlock's back. He takes Sherlock's right hand in his right hand, so that Sherlock feels John's skin pressed against his own, John's thumb tucked in against his palm to guide him. When John's hand folds Sherlock's hand over the swell of Irene's breast, Irene breathes out, slow.

Sherlock licks his lips. John's thumb moves, and with it, Sherlock's thumb, and Sherlock blinks up at Irene's face, feeling hot and exposed.

Irene's lips are parted, eyes dark. She smiles at him, then glances down, eyebrow raised as if to say, _Look_ , so Sherlock looks. Sherlock looks at John's hand on his hand as his face burns up, and she murmurs, "Now that's a sight," which it is: John's fading summer-tanned hand against his paler one over Irene's creamy golden skin; her nipple, dark brown and rosy, peaked and solid between the splay of their fingers. John guides Sherlock's thumb against the curve of the underside of her breast and Sherlock gasps, desperate, looking up at Irene's flushed face.

"Kiss me," she whispers, soft, so he does, because he can't stand it, and she— _oh_ —Sherlock knows her, Sherlock knows her kisses. She kisses him the way John kissed her before, moves her lips as John moved his lips and her tongue as John moved his tongue, and Sherlock thinks, hot and ashamed and strangely elated, that when this is over he will have no secrets anymore. Her mouth is moving on his mouth and John's hand is guiding Sherlock's hand down over her ribs to her belly, to the broad rumpled drawstring on her striped blue pajama bottoms (borrowed), and Sherlock slips his hand past John's hand to undo the tie and Irene laughs into his mouth, low and pleased.

"Do you want to touch me?" Irene asks. Sherlock doesn't answer, so she drops her voice a minor third and murmurs, "Or do you want to— _oh_ —" and it remains unfinished, because John has folded his hand back around Sherlock's hand and slid their hands together beneath the fabric falling loose around her soft hips. When John parts his fingers wide Sherlock follows suit, lets John ease his hand open and guide his upturned palm to slide over Irene's scratchy-soft pubic hair, John's first and third fingers guiding his first and third fingers into the warm creases between her groin and thighs, sweaty-damp and hot. Sherlock takes a breath, deep, and John curls his middle finger, just barely, nudging Sherlock's just against her, to just barely brush against slick skin. Irene gasps, and John's left hand tightens on Sherlock's side.

Sherlock swallows, and Irene laughs, a little breathlessly, and manages, "Oh, I'm sure I'll regret it in the morning, but I do so want to know what you can do, John," and John's voice is rough when he says, "Get on the sofa, and he'll show you."

Sherlock wants to speak but can't. He doesn't know at all what he would say. Irene is climbing out of his lap, her borrowed pajama bottoms sliding down off her hips, over her thighs and knees and calves, to pool around her ankles, leaving her bare all over, as Sherlock first saw her and yet very much not. He can see the soles of her feet. They crinkle when she steps free and turns to sit on their sofa, settling back, all her acres of fair skin half-glowing in their lamplight, and then she reaches over to put her hand in Sherlock's hair, and pulls as John's hand on his side pushes, the two of them guiding him down between her thighs. He is on his knees but John is with him, warm at his back. Irene is a smallish person, so John has to get quite close. Sherlock swallows, and Irene cups her hand over his cheek, her expression gentle, and he realizes, startled, _I trust you, don't I?_

"I like your hands," she says, very softly, so Sherlock grabs John's again, almost as though he doesn't know what to do on his own.

John exhales, and then presses his mouth to the back of Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock's whole body trembles until he realizes that John is behind him and that is simply the easiest way for him get close enough to see. Sherlock drops his weight down onto his calves, curling his spine, just a bit, so that John can shift up and hook his chin over Sherlock's shoulder, his whole body pressing close. Sherlock watches their hands, their right hands: John's thumb has curled back into Sherlock's palm, and John's fingertip brushes over Irene's dark crinkly curls, pushing them aside, so that Sherlock's fingertip slides against Irene's shiny-slick red-pink flesh. Sherlock blinks and blinks and blinks. John's left hand is still cupped around Sherlock's side.

John murmurs, "Do you want to taste her?"

"Mm." Irene wriggles closer, tugging lightly at the side of Sherlock's hair.

"That is—best, isn't it?" Sherlock asks. He feels uncertain, at sea. Irene brushes his fringe back from his face, and he looks up at her face flushed pink above him, and then, just for an instant, presses his forehead into her palm. She hums.

"There is no 'best,'" John is saying. John's fingertips are guiding Sherlock's fingertips in hot, slow arcs against her, terribly light. John does it—differently, from what Sherlock has seen, but her hips are moving restlessly, unevenly, as though she is trying but can't keep them still. "Watch her," John says, low, "smell her, _feel_ her—you can tell when you're doing it right. And—" he raises his voice— "slow is almost always better, isn't it? If you don't know what you're doing?"

Irene laughs, breathless, and says, "Yes, if you don't know what you're doing—but fast does have its place, too— _oh_ —" and John guides Sherlock's fingers over the peak of her and down, along the rim of her body, not _quite_ inside, and Irene moans, long and low, arching her body up to press hard against their mingled hands. She is very wet.

"All right?" John whispers, and Sherlock swallows and nods, so John turns his wrist up which turns Sherlock's wrist up, and then guides the tip of Sherlock's index finger just inside. Irene makes a noise that Sherlock has never actually heard come out of an actual person before. Sherlock's heart is pounding.

"She's wet," John whispers, which is both hopelessly obvious and very unnecessary. She is _very_ wet. Sherlock licks his lips. John guides Sherlock's thumb to the base of her—her clit, obviously, though it looks—different, and feels hot and strange and—and _familiar_ , and Sherlock's brain begins to make a series of wildly unhelpful notes on the differences and similarities between erectile tissue in various locations on the human body as John presses Sherlock's thumb flat against the wet soft folds of Irene's body and then slides their two fingers into her and coaxes Sherlock into stroking inside her as Irene cries out, pushing down against them around them, until John's finger is buried inside her up to to the root of it in his palm. Sherlock's fingers are longer and he could push deeper but he doesn't; John's thumb is still folded over onto his palm. Sherlock's heart is pounding. She's so wet. John is breathing hard, hot and close, his chin still hooked over Sherlock's shoulder, his hand still tight on Sherlock's side. In Sherlock's peripheral vision, John licks his lips, then curls his finger where Sherlock is watching their fingers vanishing into Irene's body (wet). Sherlock takes a breath.

John tells him, "You could... kiss her, if you wanted to," over Irene gasping and hooking her knee up over Sherlock's left shoulder, impossibly close.

Sherlock swallows. "But can't you," he says, and then stops. John can't, in fact, show him. He doesn't want John to show him.

"It's fine," John whispers, though he has clearly and thankfully misunderstood. "It's perfectly," he starts, and then stops, and draws his hand free; when Sherlock makes to follow, John says, "No, don't stop—just— _here_ ," and then touches his slick index finger, quick, to Sherlock's bottom lip.

Sherlock swallows, startled, then, somehow, he manages to lick his lips. He can't taste anything in particular, but he can quite emphatically smell her: warmer and saltier than John (illicit, perhaps, but familiar); of different sweat and more like the ocean.

"I couldn't," Sherlock explains, because John is shifting, and Sherlock wants John's hand beside his but not yet, not yet, so— "John, I—again," he says, stumbling, and slides his second finger in alongside his first, alone and forlorn, to make Irene arch up and moan and not look—just for a moment, to not look. Behind him, beside him, John is breathing in, and in, and in, and it is ruined, is it ruined? Was that too far? Was—John presses his two fingers inside Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

"Christ," John whispers, and Sherlock curls his tongue against the pads of John's fingertips, the index finger that tastes of Irene and the middle that tastes of nothing but John, _John_ , and John whispers, "Jesus, Sherlock—yeah, like that, just like that," and too soon his thick fingers slide out of Sherlock's mouth, bereft, then curl against Sherlock's cheek, drawing twinned lines, damp and cool, against Sherlock's overheated skin. Sherlock swallows and takes a shallow inadequate breath and then leans in, bends his mouth to Irene's body and kisses her wide open with his two fingers curling inside her, and John's hand slides up to meet his, John's body pressing tight and warm to his back, John's knees spread wide around his sides and John's cock nudging hard against the back of his hip, as John's thumb tangles up with his tongue on Irene's slick-salty clit. John's index finger presses between Sherlock's two fingers inside her and John presses his face to the back of Sherlock's shoulder, his left hand still squeezing Sherlock's side, and Sherlock hopes it leaves bruises. Irene moans until each breath sounds raw and half-drowns him so gradually he doesn't notice, not until his face, his mouth, his hand are all drenched, John's hand alongside his gone wet past the wrist, and when she clenches hard and tight and throbbing around them, John gasps out, "That's—go slow—gentle—slow—" but doesn't tell him to stop, so Sherlock goes slow—gentle—slow but doesn't stop. When she is still again Sherlock licks at John's thumb and John moans and Irene shivers tight all around them again, then Sherlock trembles without intent and she does it _again_. John has breathed a wet spot through the shoulder of Sherlock's shirt.

"Okay," she gasps, and then laughs, raw, and then repeats, " _okay_ ," and then says something else, but John is catching at Sherlock's hand, guiding his fingers out steady and then interlacing their slick fingers together, dropping their hands to Sherlock's knee, so Sherlock isn't really listening. Sherlock swallows but if he pulls back John will pull back so he doesn't pull back, just presses his face to the inside of Irene's thigh as John still is pressing his face to Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock swallows, and then swallows. He's hard. He's been hard for—ages, he thinks, but it is never like this; his own arousal is dull and familiar but John is hard against his arse and panting into the shoulder of his shirt, and this—this is foolish, this entire thing is idiotic in every way and Sherlock never should've agreed to it, but he did, so Sherlock rocks his weight back onto his feet, half turning, just enough that John looks up from his shoulder, face flushed hot.

John's left hand is still hard on Sherlock's side, their right hands still interlaced, and when Sherlock leans back into him, John's fingers go tighter, twisting in his shirt, restless, squeezing his right hand hard; and when Sherlock twists towards him, John's nose and mouth bump into his cheek, warm and damp. John's eyes are open like Sherlock's eyes are open so that Sherlock can watch John look up, too-close and blurred, when Sherlock whispers his name; so Sherlock can see John's tongue when John licks his lips and then turns, his nose brushing against the side Sherlock's nose as his left hand on Sherlock's side goes painfully tight and then _pulls_ , tugging at Sherlock's shirt and then slipping— _oh_ —down to touch Sherlock's bare rice paper-thin superheated skin, John's fingers brand-hot and impossible to bear like John's mouth which is so close, so _close_ , so Sherlock twists as far as he can twist with John's fingertips sliding down into the crease of his hip, dipping under the waistband of his trousers, and John's sticky right hand letting go of Sherlock's to slide up over Sherlock's sticky cheek into Sherlock's hair, and then his tongue is sliding into Sherlock's mouth and the noise of John's heart and lungs is pounding in Sherlock's ears and Sherlock is lost, he is lost, he is lost. John's mouth is not at all soft, and very wet indeed.

"Oh—" John gasps, is gasping, so Sherlock kisses him again, and again, and again, the ocean-roar of John's blood mere spans of cells from his blood which is hot, so hot, he is too hot. Sherlock wants—he wants to _taste_ him; his hands on John's body and John's hands on him will be nothing like enough, he wants John in his _mouth_ , so he twists away, clumsy, and drags John half up to his feet with his hands sliding over Sherlock's face and shoulders, confused, and then Sherlock drags John around to push him back down onto the sofa next to Irene, then kneels between his thighs.

"Please." Sherlock tugs at John's legs, tugs John's arse to the edge of the sofa to be near to him but not near enough, and John stares down at him, mouth red—Sherlock did that—and shiny—Sherlock did that too—and Sherlock runs his hands up over John's denim-clad thighs and John's eyes are wide and shocked and Sherlock says, "Please, Irene, please, I don't know what to do—"

"Huh." She still sounds breathless.

"Sherlock," John whispers.

"Am I really the only person in the room who's ever given head to a man?" Irene asks.

"Please," Sherlock says, without looking away from John's face, "please help me."

" _Sherlock_ ," John repeats.

"Well," Irene says, "That's—unusual."

"You don't have to." John's voice is thick, and his fingertips brush Sherlock's cheek, _oh_. "You—you don't have to, I—"

"Do you want me to?" Sherlock asks, and then, "Because I want to," and John's throat moves without sound. Sherlock repeats, "I want to, I want to— _desperately_ ," and John takes a breath. Sherlock slides his fingertips over John's straining flies— _hot_ —and John swallows again, and again, and then Sherlock skims his fingers just over John's waistband under John's untucked shirt and John gasps, and Sherlock stills, heart pounding and hopeful.

John swallows, and then squeezes his hand around the nothing beside his knee, and then nods, fast.

Sherlock presses his damp face to John's thigh, then fumbles with John's shirt buttons even though they aren't necessary and the button at the waist of John's jeans, which is. He struggles with the zip. He is discovering that he has, at the very least, seventeen left thumbs. John is breathing very hard.

"You'll want to get them down to his thighs, at least, not just open," Irene is saying, far away, as John takes two fast, gasping breaths, and then lifts his hips. "Ankles are better," Irene says, "you'll want the room," so Sherlock pushes John's jeans and pants down to his ankles and then tugs them off when John lifts his feet and then slides back up and close between John's knees, John's thighs, because John is curling down to cup his hand under Sherlock's chin and kiss him, sparking flint at the base of Sherlock's spine. Sherlock wants to crawl inside him. Irene is saying something but Sherlock has to struggle to hear.

"Not terribly likely to get what you want if you keep doing that," Irene is saying, very gently. "He's close, just look at him."

Sherlock pulls back enough to admit light and no further; it's not as though he's capable of looking anywhere else. John is blushing all the way down his neck and underneath his vest, down onto his belly and over his spread thighs and his heavy balls and his stiff dark-flushed cock, which is damp and shiny, precome welling up and leaking wet trails down from the tip. Sherlock's mouth is watering. He rests his cheek against the satiny-hot skin of John's thigh and John gasps, " _Oh_ ," before Sherlock's even touched him, taking Irene's direction as she tells him, "Spread it out with your hand, get him nice and slick," her voice beside them gone low and sleepy and warm.

"God," John gasps, dropping his head back against the sofa, " _Sherlock_ —" and Sherlock can't take it anymore, he just can't; he leans forward and pulls John into his mouth, and oh, _oh_ , he can't, he has to—he wants to _choke_ on it but he doesn't know how to do that.

"Use your hand," Irene says. John is moaning, low and rough. "Don't take too much into your mouth; it isn't necessary. _Listen_ to him. Lick at the slit—listen, see? He likes that, don't you?"

John whimpers. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut tight and takes him deeper—too much, pressed at the back of his throat; his heart pounds in panic. He pulls back just enough to breathe and rubs his palm against John's thigh. John is _loud_ , much louder than Sherlock has ever heard him, and Sherlock realizes that John was deliberately keeping himself quiet, all those years, that John—that John has probably always been loud, that John didn't mean for him to hear, before, but now he does. All of Sherlock's internal organs feel crowded, pressing impossibly together. He can't breathe. Above him John is panting, each breath catching in his throat, and then John is gasping, "I want to kiss him," ragged and thick.

"I know, but he's busy," Irene says, very gently. Sherlock's breath scrapes in his throat.

"I just—I want, I want to kiss him," John is telling her, "I want—I want him against me, I want to—to feel him come, _against_ me—"

"I think he'll probably let you," Irene says, "later."

"I want to kiss him," John whispers, and Irene murmurs, "You can kiss me instead, if you want to—I know it's not the same, but I was just kissing him not that long ago, you know. Lovely, isn't he?"

"Yes," John breathes.

"And he wants to do this," she says, soft, and Sherlock groans, "so _badly_ —just listen to him, John—" and John's breath catches in a tiny, raw noise, and he gasps, "Sh-Sherlock, I—" and then stops, the whole of his body going tense and trembling beneath Sherlock's hands and mouth and hands and Irene says, "You can pull off, if you're worried that—" but Sherlock digs his fingers into John's thigh because he doesn't care and she is silent as Sherlock's mouth is flooded thickwarmsalty, choking, and Sherlock swallows and tries not to gag and then swallows again, and again, and then coughs, pulling away just enough to look up at John, who is twisted to press a hard, close-mouthed kiss against Irene's mouth but pulls back, gasping, loud and wet, sounding torn-up. John's face is bright red. He reaches down and puts his hands on Sherlock's face and tugs, so Sherlock pushes up as far as he can onto his knees and John curls to meet him, to push his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and kiss him until Sherlock is dizzy with it, breathless.

"Please," John whispers, and Sherlock nods blindly. He isn't sure what the question is; it doesn't matter. John nods and pulls back, which is unacceptable, so Sherlock finds himself stumbling up to his feet to keep his mouth within an acceptable distance of John's mouth.

"I'm taking him to bed," John tells Irene, pushing up to his feet, then adds, "Please don't misunderstand, but I don't really give a fuck what you do," and Irene grins up at them, still naked on their sofa and rosy-pink all over and looking inexplicably and unaccountably pleased with herself.

"I think I'll just take Sherlock's bed, then," she says, "if he's not going to be using it."

_Wait_ , Sherlock wants to say, because he hates other people touching his things, but John is still half-naked and taking his hand and pulling him towards the staircase and it suddenly seems tremendously unimportant. He lets John pull him up the stairs and through the door and then John shuts and locks the door, which is odd; Sherlock didn't realize John's door locked.

"Please," John says, voice rough, as he shoves his shirt off his shoulders and then peels off his vest, and then he is entirely naked and staring at Sherlock with something wild and unfamiliar in his eyes. "Please," John repeats, softer.

"Yes," Sherlock says, and then swallows, and then admits, "I don't know what you're asking."

John's mouth turns down. "Come here," he says, so Sherlock goes there; and then, "Let me," so Sherlock is still. John unbuttons Sherlock's untucked shirt and his cuffs and his trousers and pushes at his pants and lets the lot fall to the floor even though Sherlock's mobile is still in his trouser pocket and hits the floor with a thump that would be, under other circumstances, alarming, but Sherlock's heart is trembling rabbit-fast beneath John's fingers and Sherlock doesn't care. John touches his cheeks, his clavicles, his ribs and his belly, which jumps; John rubs his palms over Sherlock's bare hips and the still-pink knife scar on his side and then back up his arms to settle on his shoulders; and then John is looking at the base of Sherlock's throat as he whispers, "This— _this_ is an entanglement."

Sherlock swallows. "I am. Aware."

"If you stay—" John's voice cracks, and he clears his throat— "I will be terrible to you because I want—I will want too much from you, I will—I will want you to be more—more ordinary than you are and to understand me better and it will hurt you when I ask just as it will hurt me when you can't." He clears his throat. "I will—I mean, I'm already better than half in love with you, you must know that, and I don't—I don't give up, you _know_ that, it will be—I will be terrible to you. And I won't—if you want to leave I'll be—lost, I just." He stops, and takes a breath, and says, more steadily, "I'm not sure I'll ever know how to let go."

"Then don't," Sherlock says, and John looks up at him for a long and silent moment, then reaches up, and uses the inside of his wrist to wipe at Sherlock's still sticky face.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

"This one time," John says, very quietly. "Just this one time, it was fine, because it was—it seemed—necessary. But." He takes a breath. "But anything else you want to learn, you learn from me."

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down at him, and John stares back, and Sherlock's ribcage feels too small, crushing. He doesn't know how to explain— _sometimes, it's nice to have someone else look after you for a while_ , and Seoul, and Paris, and _Vancouver_ —so instead, he nods, because agreeing whole-heartedly is perfect and easy, and then John's hands are on him, John's mouth is on him, but John is too idiotically _short_ and it hurts Sherlock's neck and it would be so much simpler if they were lying down. Sherlock pushes John's shoulders and John pulls at Sherlock's hips and Sherlock stumbles and John draws him up, stretching out together on top of John's green duvet with John's skin hot everywhere against him and John's tongue in his mouth and John and John and John.

"Can I," John whispers, and Sherlock says, "Yes," and then John shifts and then Sherlock trembles and John asks, "Is it," and Sherlock whispers, "Yes," and John pushes Sherlock's fringe out of his face with his free hand. John whispers, "Tell me," and Sherlock manages to find enough air to whisper, "You—you're so— _kiss me_ ," so John kisses him, his weight pressed everywhere tight and heavy against him, impossibly close and impossibly warm, and doesn't stop, and doesn't stop, and doesn't stop.

Ages pass between breaths. Sherlock's heart is too fast, tremulous, and when he manages to open his eyes again it is to John pulling his hand up to lick at his own fingers. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat, and John exhales, glancing at him, then touches Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock licks at John's fingertips, and John presses tight against him and slides his two fingers into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock sucks and doesn't close his eyes and sucks and sucks. John rubs his thumb at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock pulls back just enough to lick at the "V" where John's middle and index fingers meet his palm. John swallows, throat bobbing, and touches Sherlock's jaw, so Sherlock twists the last half-inch to kiss him.

Sherlock's mouth is Sherlock's mouth, his tongue is his tongue, his lips are his lips, and when Sherlock moves too fast and clacks their teeth together— _clumsy_ —John laughs, low and warm, his toes curling against the top of Sherlock's feet, and brushes his knuckles against Sherlock's cheek. He slides his arm under Sherlock's head so that Sherlock can lean back, then settles his weight against Sherlock's body. He is warm and almost too close, just at the edge of where Sherlock's eyes can still focus. John touches him for no reason, and doesn't stop.

Sherlock feels like he is sinking. His sense of time is badly misaligned. He doesn't know how long it is before John licks his lips, but he can tell that John's face is still pink, a bit, and his mouth is twisting up at the corner.

John clears his throat. "Are you thirsty?" he asks. "Because. I am. I mean. A bit. I mean. If—"

Sherlock is thirsty. "Yes," he says.

"Right." John nods, then touches Sherlock's mouth, quick, and pushes back. "Stay here, all right? I'm just going to..."

"All right," Sherlock says, even though all the air rushing in around him is cold, unwelcome. John bends to kiss him, quick, then rolls up to his feet and grabs his dressing gown off the hook behind the door.

"Just... stay there," John tells him, and slips out the door, closing it behind him.

Without John beside him, Sherlock is acutely aware that he is naked, and even upstairs, the flat still isn't ever anything that could be considered overly warm, at least not at the tail end of September. He rolls over to the edge of the bed and stands up to tug the duvet and sheet back, and then his mobile buzzes somewhere—right, yes, in his trouser pocket, in his trousers, on the floor. Sherlock bends down to dig around and find it, then climbs back into John's bed and tugs the blankets up to his ears before unlocking the screen.

Irene. _All well?_

Sherlock licks his lips. _Fine_ , he types, then hits send, and then, hesitant and embarrassed, he replies again, _Thank you_.

He can hear John's tread on the stairs, so he pushes himself up to sitting, even though it leaves his shoulders bare and quickly getting cold. His phone buzzes in his hand.

_I prefer Dutch chocolates to French_ , she tells him. _And I'm rather fond of sapphires (genuine only, of course). Oh, and guns. I like guns. Nothing says 'thank you' like guns._

John opens the door, one glass of water in his hand, the other tucked between his forearm and his chest. The tie of his dressing gown is coming undone.

_Go away_ , Sherlock tells Irene, then drops his phone off the side of the bed and takes both glasses, so that John can drop his dressing gown on the floor and press himself up against Sherlock's side under the duvet. John takes his glass back and takes a sip. He is smiling, flushed very pink. Sherlock is too, probably. His face is hot. They can both hear her laughter floating up the stairs.


End file.
